


Freedom's Just Another Word (For Nothing Left to Lose)

by cm (mumblemutter)



Category: Heroes - Fandom
Genre: Big Bang Challenge, Community: heroes_bigboom, Future Fic, Gen, Incest, M/M, Post-Canon, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-05
Updated: 2010-10-05
Packaged: 2017-10-12 10:31:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/123936
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mumblemutter/pseuds/cm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Simon becomes Sylar's lawyer and then at some point he disappears. Sylar, not Simon. And then Peter happens.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Freedom's Just Another Word (For Nothing Left to Lose)

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [**heroes_bigboom**](http://community.livejournal.com/heroes_bigboom/), with art by [skylar0grace](http://skylar0grace.livejournal.com) and a soundtracklet by A. For full credits, see [this post](http://mumblemutter.dreamwidth.org/27997.html).

### 1.

Sylar shows up at his office on a Tuesday. Nine a.m. sharp, his appointment book says, _Mr. Danko_ , and the man that slides into the chair across from his desk is pale and grey-haired, but then he morphs, and it takes all of Simon's training not to flinch, not to reach for the phone and get Michelle to call the police, stat. Then the new face firms up and he regrets not doing that after all. _I have no powers_ , he wants to say. _Killing me is useless._ But then again, Sylar never killed only because he wanted the ability. Sometimes he did it just because he thought it was fun. Because he wanted to.

Simon Petrelli knows, perhaps, a little too much about the man who used to be Gabriel Gray.

Sylar says, "No need to be afraid, Mr. Petrelli. I apologize for the deception, but I was worried you would not see me otherwise. I need your help." His voice is softer than Simon had imagined it would be, a holdover from his childhood image of the boogeyman, the monster that killed Pa, even though it's been years since Simon's been afraid of things that go bump in the night. Sylar smiles slightly. "You look more like your father than I expected you to."

"Except I'm taller." Simon's hand hovers under the desk; there's an emergency button there. One press and security will come running, and all this will go away.

"Please don't," Sylar says. "I won't stop you if you insist, but please don't. Just give me five minutes of your time."

And Simon thinks: Who the fuck do you think you are?

And Simon thinks: How dare you?

And he doesn't call for help. Instead he looks at his watch and says, "Five minutes. Go."

*

Monty calls him, just about the second the news hits, and even over the phone Simon can tell he's been crying. He sounds furious rather than distressed though, when he snarls, "What the fuck, Simon. What the fuck."

"I take it you heard."

"I heard, yes I heard. From a reporter calling to ask me what I thought, and thanks, by the way, for letting me know. I sure do appreciate my brother looking out for me like that, for preparing me for the media coming around asking questions."

"What?" Simon replies. "I'm sorry, I didn't think they would. I'm sorry."

"He killed our _father_. Surely you don't need the publicity that badly." Only Monty can sound that disapproving over the phoneline. Simon pictures him, his brow furrowed in earnestness, trying to figure out why it is exactly that Simon's decided to take the case. Trying to figure out how to talk him out of it. But it's not as if Simon knows exactly why he said yes himself, beyond _I always loved a challenge,_ which isn't a reason so much as it is an excuse.

"Look, I can't talk to you like this, okay. I'm coming over."

"Wait, Monty, don't -"

But Monty's already hung up. Half an hour from Monty's apartment to here. Twenty minutes if Monty drives the way he always drives. Simon uses the time to take a shower and start dinner, figures if Monty's got some food to look forward to he might be less liable to take Simon's head off. Not that Monty's ever been a big fan of food, most days it seems like a struggle for him to even finish off half a plate. Simon put on five pounds after they started regularly getting together for dinner, just from Monty pushing most of his left-over food in Simon's direction.

The sauce is just about ready by the time Monty arrives, and not for the first time Simon regrets giving him the key to the apartment. "You keep saying that and eventually I might take it personally," Monty calls out, unwrapping his scarf and tossing it carelessly onto the nearest available surface. Simon picks it up as he nears the door, then snaps his fingers to get the gloves and the coat, hangs them all up neatly in closet. Monty enjoys owning expensive items of clothing and destroying them with lack of care almost equally as much.

"Do I get a hug or are you too pissed off for that."

"You get a hug," Monty says. "But I'm still pissed," he growls into Simon's ear before squeezing him on the shoulder. "You made dinner. Let's see if I can guess exactly how guilty you feel."

"You can read my mind, Monty," Simon says sourly. "You know exactly how guilty I feel. Or don't feel."

"Yeah, but sometimes it's nice to guess." He beams as he walks backwards into the kitchen, spreading his arms out wide before spinning around and pulling himself up gracefully onto the marble counter. "Marinara, nice. Oh, and I do eat, by the way. Just not as much as you do. Some of us have normal digestive systems, Simon."

"Sure, you keep saying that," Simon grouses, but mostly he's grateful that Monty's not exploded at him. Not yet, anyway.

"No, I've decided to take a more subtle approach tonight, and no don't even go there, I can be subtle when I want to, thanks." He swings his legs and watches as Simon sets the table, doesn't offer to help. Mostly because he only gets in the way. Simon sees him reaching for a ladle and projects, _don't even think about it_ , and he puts his hand down dejectedly.

"So what's your strategy again," Simon asks, once they're seated and the food is hot on their plates.

Monty reaches up to push his hair behind his ear; he has taken to affecting the shaggy dog look again. Simon supposes it's better than his short-lived phase of slicking back his hair, gel darkening the light brown shade to a color similar to Simon's. Although then you could actually tell they were brothers. "It's not as if you ever listen to me, so I've decided I'm just going to let you explain yourself and skip the part where I tell you how wrong you are, just to save us some time. Because I'm certain you have a perfectly good reason why you're stomping all over the memory of our father."

"I don't -" Simon starts, then he stops and says, "It's not for the publicity, okay. Some of the other partners in the firm certainly aren't pleased -"

"Oh, I wonder why."

"This is important, Monty."

"So, what? You're a Special Rights defender now? That's bullshit. Also bullshit, him coming to you in the first place. There are about a half-dozen organizations dedicated to defending and protecting people like Sylar. People like _me._ You've never shown the slightest bit of interest in being one of them."

"You are _nothing_ like him," Simon snaps without thinking, and Monty blinks. "I thought you were going to let me explain myself?"

Monty grins, then makes a twisting motion with his hand to his lips and tosses the imaginary key over his shoulder. He picks up his fork and busies himself with pretending he's actually going to eat the food he claims he's so starving for, and Simon tries to think of something reasonable to say. In the end though, he just closes his eyes, lets Monty do what he does best. "I don't think that's a reason," Monty says, after a while.

"Yeah, well. It's the best I got, okay?"

"Okay," Monty says, and he visibly relaxes. "Just, be careful. You're the only brother I have, as much as you're a pain most of the time."

"I'll try my best." Simon smiles, the first genuine smile he's been capable of giving since all of this started, since he said yes.

*

Sometimes Simon wonders what it would be like to have an ability. Not often, only sometimes. To be able to do what perhaps only one other person on the entire planet can do, if that. Telekinesis, super-strength, time-travel. _Telepathy._ He was twelve, and it was a tiny white lie all older boys tell when their younger brothers insist on accompanying them everywhere, and there's perhaps a girl you want to speak to and having your kid brother there might just be a drag. A tiny little lie, but Monty snapped, "You're not telling me the truth. I _know._ "

"How do you _know?_ ," Simon said. "Can you read my mind or something? Quick, guess what I'm thinking now."

And Monty had burst into tears and ran up to his room, refused to come out for hours. Simon contemplated just leaving him, but in the end, the girl could wait and Monty was his responsibility, so he ended up outside the door, knocking and pleading until Monty opened it, face red and tear-streaked. "I'm not a loser," he said pitifully, and Simon felt something fragile inside of him break.

"I know you're not," he said, and he tugged Monty to him and hugged him tight. "I'm sorry, okay. I'm sorry."

Ma cried for what seemed like a week when she found out, and after that all she would say was, "You can't tell anyone. Monty, do you understand, baby? You listen to your mother. You can't tell anyone, not even your friends at school."

Monty stared at her, wide-eyed and uncomprehending, and it was up to Simon to explain it to him, when it was bedtime and after Ma had tucked them both in. "Monty," Simon said. "Listen, don't fall asleep yet, okay?" Monty nodded his head and curled in closer to Simon, like a cat seeking warmth. "What Ma told you today - remember what you said about everyone's inside voices?"

"They don't match their outside voices," Monty replied sleepily.

"Yeah," Simon said. "That. It's really important that you don't tell anyone that you can hear their inside voices."

"But what if they're lying. I know, Simon." He pulled away and looked at Simon.

"Then you have to pretend that they're not. Just listen to their outside voices and pretend that it's the truth." He brushed Monty's hair away from his forehead and said, "Please, can you do that for me?"

"Okay," Monty said dubiously. "For how long?"

"Forever," Simon said.

"Why?"

"Because. Because I'm your brother, and I know what's best for you."

Monty nodded his head after a while, then said, "But I don't have to pretend with you, right?"

"No," Simon said, and he sighed and tried to accustom himself to the idea that he couldn't ever lie to his baby brother. "I love you, Monty. Go to sleep." But Monty's eyes were already closing, and his breathing was evening out the way it always did when he was falling asleep. Simon listened to him for a while, only drifting off when he was certain that Monty was fast asleep.

*

Grandma says, when they drop over for the weekly dinner that neither of them are allowed to decline, no matter how busy they get, "Sylar, really. Do you feel that's wise?"

Monty snorts and squeezes her hand. "Simon always knows what he's doing, Grandma. I wouldn't worry."

"People don't change, Simon," she says sharply, the fond smile on her face solely reserved for Monty.

"If there's anything I've learnt from growing up in this family," Simon says, picking up his wine glass and tilting it in her direction, "It's how true that is."

*

Simon's used to the media, used to the press following his life; he's a Petrelli, and dealing with this is so much a part of who he is, he barely even notices it anymore. But even he's not prepared for the barrage of press that surrounds them when he first announces that Sylar, or Gabriel Gray, and he's always careful to call him Mr. Gray when he speaks, is willing to come forward after more than two decades to pay for his numerous crimes. Simon makes a speech on the front steps of the courtyard, and then another one. And then another one, and by then just about everyone knows his name, knows his face. There's buzz. There's excitement. It's been a while since something this big has happened. Most specials just aren't that special anymore, not when all of them can usually only do the one thing that's different from everyone else.

Sylar, Sylar can do them all. Of course, Peter Petrelli can do them as well, but that's a tightly held secret, and Simon never did get around to finding out how it was that an empath could avoid scrutiny for that long, hide in plain sight as nothing more than a regen. Another question he will never know the answer to, just like so many others.

Sylar has stolen the important ones, ripped them from the heads of his unsuspecting victims, absorbed their powers like a sponge to use them in delightfully cruel and inventive ways. Simon pours through the case files, spreads crime scene photos all over the table - reads them until all the blood and death and loss start to blur in his head, until he finds himself throwing up in the bathroom toilet, something he's not done in, well. In ever.

His father's name isn't in the pile.

*

It was years before the word Sylar took on any connotations other than a vague boogeyman one. No one mentioned the name directly to either one of them of course, but somehow it must have seeped into their subconscious. Conversations that halted as he entered the room, Ma or Grandma or sometimes even Uncle Peter abruptly shutting their mouths when they noticed him - followed immediately by someone calling for Natasha to come and get him, and they turned their backs on him as he was whisked away, told sternly not to _disturb the adults._

The first time Monty woke up screaming Simon was eight, and Simon wasn't sure what had woken him up except that he knew somehow it was Monty, and he ran down the hall to Monty's bedroom, found him thrashing and yelling, covers twisting around his body as if he were being strangled by them. When Simon went to the bed and shook him he clawed at Simon's face and whimpered, eyes wide and bright and terrified, illuminated by the night-light that he always had to have on, and he said, "He's coming to get us, Simon. Sylar. He's coming to get us." And he cried and Simon held him, snot and tears seeping into his PJs, until Natasha came into the room and shooed him away, crawled into Monty's bed with him and held him until he fell asleep again.

Simon went back to his own bedroom and stared at the ceiling, afraid that if he slept he'd dream about Sylar as well. And he wasn't a baby, he wasn't Monty. If he screamed it'd be inappropriate, and he'd die of humiliation if Natasha had to comfort him the way she did with Monty.

He only fell asleep as it was nearing dawn and it was time for them to wake up for school.

Simon's teachers asked Mom to come to the school often those days, because of all the times that Simon fell asleep during class. Mom said to him, smoothing back his hair with her fingers, "I know it's hard, honey, but Dad would want you to pay attention in class. Can you do that for him? For us?"

When he snapped, "Dad's dead, Mom. I don't think he cares if I do well in school or not," she'd flinched, and started to cry, and Simon was immediately sorry. He wrapped his arms around her and she hugged him back, rocked him back and forth until she got control of herself.

Simon had a half-sister and an uncle who couldn't die. None of this made them particularly popular in school, although it was never that bad; there was the Petrelli name, and he was good at ignoring the whispers or reacting to overt acts of hostility in his own way. No-one messed with Simon Petrelli, or his younger brother. Monty liked to say, "Some of them are just pretending to like us, you know. They just really wanna know if you have an ability or whatever."

Simon would only shrug. It didn't matter to him, not all that much, so long as they paid him the proper respect. There was a kid in his class, and one day a man in a suit showed up and called him out, took him away and he disappeared after that. Monty told him darkly, "He had an ability - who knows where he is now." But Monty was always overly suspicious about these things. The kid could have just switched schools. "Who knows, one day they might come for me."

"You're so paranoid. Jesus." He would never let them take Monty anywhere.

"Like you could stop them, Simon."

Those days, everyone was always crying around him, especially Monty, and after a while Simon just slid into his bed behind him and held him until he slept, and held him again when he dreamed. At first Natasha would come in and tell him to return to his room, but Monty would scream and refuse to let go of Simon's arm, and eventually no one tried to keep them apart anymore. Mom would come into the room sometimes, she'd sit down on the edge of the bed and say, "My beautiful, brave boys," and she'd kiss Monty softly on the forehead and put her hand on Simon's cheek.

*

"Do you want me to confess to your father's murder as well?"

"No."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes."

*

Of course, he doesn't think Sylar will actually disappear. Trials go badly and defendants get jittery, none more so than Sylar, but it's Simon's job to reassure them and he's usually very good at it.

"I'm going to lose," Sylar moans. "They'll drag out yet another stupid daughter of some woman I don't even recall murdering to tell her sob story about how I ruined her life, and they'll tag another fifty years to my sentence. Maybe they'll even decide to throw the book at me. Death sentence."

"You can't die, Sylar," Simon reminds him gently. "And besides, the death penalty isn't on the table. Mostly because you can't die, but still."

"It's just -" he puts his head in his hands and sighs. "I thought it would be easy. I thought maybe - Peter said that-"

"Wait, Peter? What does Peter have to do with this?" But of course Peter has everything to do with this. Peter, who's the reason, no doubt, why Sylar showed up at Simon's office and no one else's; because he's a Petrelli, and for some reason the man feels some sort of kinship with their family. Although considering their history, murdered father notwithstanding, Simon doesn't quite blame him for that. "This was Peter's idea?"

"No, not exactly," Sylar admits. "He just suggested that perhaps if I wanted absolution I should come forward and confess my crimes, wait for the justice system to decide my fate."

Simon pulls a chair forward and sits down, leans in close to Sylar. "Look, you're guilty, everyone knows that. The crying children, wounded husbands and wives, all of them don't matter. We know they'll find you guilty. If you'd consider cutting a deal -"

"I'm not accepting that deal they offered."

"No, I'm aware of that. Just thought I'd try one last time." Sylar just wants his day in court. Everyone needs to hear about his crimes and his subsequent rehabilitation. "Look, all that matters is how you're punished. We will fight against the permanent administration of power suppressants, I promise. How are you dealing with them so far?"

"It's not so bad. I haven't had much use of my powers, so it's not a remarkable difference in the way I lead my life, especially not from the confines of my jail cell. The public scrutiny, however, was - unexpected. It's been over two decades."

"Yeah, but you're _Sylar,_ " Simon tells him. "No one forgets the really creative ones, especially the ones who don't get caught."

Sylar's smile is wry. "Did you know? Is that why you took the case, despite what I'm sure would have been your very valid reasons not to?"

Simon says, "I honestly don't know why I took the case."

"You know, I believe you're telling me the truth." He smiles, and Simon starts to breathe again.

Two days later and he's gone, escaped from his cell in the middle of the night. He doesn't kill anyone in the process, which is a surprise to just about everyone involved, most of all Simon. "How did you manage to lose the world's most notorious serial killer? Was no one watching him? And how did he get out when he doesn't even have his powers," Simon snaps at the head of the evo-squad, who personally called to tell him that his client had gone missing. Her name is Eva Davis, and Simon has always hated her, and not just because of the title she holds. She's spiteful and petty and enjoys the power her job gives her. The one time Monty had bothered to show up at a party he was hosting, Simon had introduced them and Monty spent the entire rest of the evening stuck to his side, balefully glaring at her from the corner of his eye until Simon had to grab his wrist. _You're being impolite_. Monty had whispered, "She's a monster." _No, she's just well-intentioned._

"We're not certain. We think perhaps it was an inside job, someone assisted him." Of course. Sylar was reviled almost everywhere, but there were also those who admired him to the point of worship. Simon gets letters, because apparently being the attorney defending Sylar means he's worthy of attention from the crazies as well. "Were you aware of Sylar's intentions to -"

"No," Simon says. "And I would watch, very carefully, what you choose to say next."

"Of course, Mr. Petrelli," she says neutrally. "You understand if I send a few men down anyway, to take a statement from you, ask a few questions."

"But of course. I'm always happy to help you do your job." It's not wise, alienating influential people, and Simon's usually more diplomatic than this. He sighs and reigns in his temper. "I apologize if I'm snappish. Of course I'm upset that he's gone missing. I will do my best to help in any way I can. Thanks for calling to let me know."

"You're welcome. My men will be by in an hour or so."

"I'll clear my schedule then." When she hangs up he tells Michelle to hold all his calls and rubs his face wearily, wonders what the hell he's supposed to do now.

 

 

### 2.

Nathan Petrelli died in a plane crash. Simon believed that until Monty turned ten. He'd woken up screaming one night, yet another night, and Simon had been impatient because he had an exam the next morning and he didn't want to fail, and he'd said, "Why are you so afraid of this Sylar. He's not even real."

But Monty just sobbed and told him fearfully, "He's real, Monty. He killed Dad. I saw him in Grandma's mind. He's real." And he'd refused to be consoled for the rest of the night.

Simon asked Grandma the next morning, "How did Dad die?"

She paled and said, "In a plane crash, of course. You shouldn't be asking such silly questions, dear. Now run along to school before you're late."

Of course, now he recalls that moment as the first moment when he'd decided that the only person in the world whose word he trusted was Monty's, but back then he'd just felt ill. He failed his exam spectacularly, and it was only when Grandma made a stern phone call to the dean that he was allowed to re-take it, with the promise that he would ace it this time around.

Monty managed to get through most of school without anyone realizing, even though he'd chatter incessantly at Simon about how everyone just lied constantly, and how he wished he could tell them that he knew all their secrets. Then he grew old enough to understand just how dangerous it was to have anyone even suspect you had a power, especially in a family like the Petrellis with a lineage of specials, and he stopped.

Those were the bad years, when Monty would be surly and closed in upon himself, and it took a large amount of effort on Simon's part to keep him from entirely shutting out everyone else, including Simon. "I know what you're doing, you know," Monty said once, bundled up under the covers with his earphones stuck into his ears like alien antennae. Monty was fifteen, and Simon didn't want to think about what would happen when he went away to college the next year.

"What am I doing?"

"Nothing worthwhile," Monty replied curtly, but when Simon exhaled in frustration and made to get up off the bed, Monty grabbed hold of his wrist and tugged until he sat back down. "I just - thank you. I shut them out nowadays, mostly, you know. It makes it easier, but I feel as if I'm blind. As if I'm deliberately cutting out a part of me." His eyes were huge and dark when he turned to Simon. "Except when I'm with you."

Long ago, Simon had come to the decision that he wouldn't lie to Monty, ever. That his thoughts would be as accessible as Monty needed them to be. Too often he regretted that, but not now. Not here. They had no secrets between them, and Simon didn't need to be able to read minds to be secure in the knowledge that in turn Monty was just as truthful towards him.

He leaned down and kissed Monty on the forehead, and Monty grimaced, but didn't pull away. "Man," he said, "Sometimes you act as if I'm still six years old," but he sounded pleased. _Fuck you_ , Simon thought, and Monty laughed, his hand tightening briefly on Simon's wrist before he let go.

*

Simon goes through all other options he can think of before he gets Michelle to retrieve the address for him. But, and he's aware of this even as he tries, there's no one who's willing to track down Sylar, no matter how much he can afford to pay. Simon can't say as he blames them, particularly. The drugs would have worn off by now; he's the most powerful special out there.

Peter still lives in the same apartment that he lived in twenty years ago, except he owns the building now, bought it out when the owners wanted to tear it down, build a super high-rise or something. He looks surprised when Simon knocks on his door, a little wary. "Simon, wow. It's been a while."

"Almost a year, yeah. I invited you to my birthday party last summer -"

"Yeah, wow. Sorry." He puts a hand on Simon's arm and draws him in. "Something came up that time, I couldn't make it. I wanted to, but something came up."

"It's fine, you weren't missed."

Peter falters slightly, but recovers with an offer of a drink. "I've seen you on the news," he calls from the kitchen. "Sylar, amazing. I never thought he'd actually get around to doing it."

"I heard that was in no small part due to you."

"Yeah, that's an exaggeration." He hands Simon a glass and pours wine generously into it. "He likes to hear the sound of his own voice. I mostly offer encouragement. Actually I mostly just mmhmm once in a while, and he finds his own way eventually. This was all him."

"Yeah. How's, uh - Emma?"

"She - she's good. Got remarried this summer," Peter says stiffly.

"Oh. That's - uh, great," Simon says. He takes the offered seat on the couch and waits for Peter to join him, slightly unnerved at how Peter's face hasn't changed at all. It always unnerves him, the same way it does whenever Claire drops by to visit, how they're constantly unchanging, and perhaps if he ever found Sylar and visited him fifty years from now he'd look exactly the same as well.

"Yeah, he's a nice guy. Retired doctor. You'd like him." His face is a pained mask for the briefest of seconds before it slides back into casual friendliness. "So, what can I do for you? Did you come here to ask me to be a witness in Sylar's case or something? Because I'm really not sure I'm the right person for that. I told him that when he asked."

"No, I," Simon pauses, and suddenly he's not sure why he came here in the first place, other than his certainty that of all people, Peter would be the one that was not just willing, but able to help. "He's gone," he tells Peter finally, and Peter's eyes widen. "That's why I'm here."

*

Simon never took the lack of men in his life as a detriment, growing up. All the women around him were steely-backed and borderline terrifying; even their tears were wielded as weapons often enough. His father told him once to take care of his brother, though, and Simon never forgot that it was his most important duty, to make sure that Monty was all right. To be a _man_ , in his brother's eyes first and foremost. But Monty was never difficult to love, quite the contrary; he felt sometimes, growing up, that he was bursting with it, that he almost couldn't contain how fierce it was.

Claire would drop by once in a while. When they were younger she'd take Simon and Monty out for ice cream, or to the park sometimes. Simon remembers her as being perpetually blond and beautiful, but always a little sad, like all of them. Simon was always faintly embarrassed over it, the scandal of an illegitimate child in the family, but Monty simply embraced her as if she had always been a part of their lives. After Grandma started staying over more often she'd drop by and ask them how they were doing, give them presents before retreating to the study room. "What are they talking about?" he liked to ask Monty.

"Busybody," Monty grouched, but Simon pursued and finally Monty made a face and relented. "Just the usual, jeez. What's going on with the specials, what kind of laws they're going to pass. Grandma's not happy with the new administration. She's even more unhappy with Claire joining Homeland Security." He scowled and tossed a book at Simon that Simon barely managed to catch. "I'm not your personal mind reader, you know. You should just ask them what they're discussing if you're curious."

Simon grinned at him and tossed the book right back, but not before frowning at the title. "But where's the fun in that," he said. "And Gaiman, really?"

"It's about superheroes," Monty said. "Everybody wants to save the world."

"I think it's rule, not save," Simon replied.

When Claire left and Monty chased him away to return to his book, Simon wandered outside and found Grandma sitting at the table by the veranda, a distant expression on her face. Simon patted her cheek lightly with the back of his hand. "Hey, are you okay?"

She clutched at his hand, fingernails digging in, and said, "Your father had such strength, Simon. I miss that sometimes. Everything's changing so fast. This generation - Claire's, yours, you don't understand. You children -"

"I'm seventeen, Grandma," Simon reminded her. "I'm hardly a child. Neither is Claire."

She waved her free hand imperiously. "Oh, you know what I meant," she said, and then her gaze focused on him, narrowed brightly. "You remind me of him. That same determination, the willingness to do what's right, what's important."

Simon pulled away from her, slid his hands uncomfortably into his pockets. Her insistence on comparing him to Nathan always made him wary, as if she saw him as a means to some particular end that he wasn't privy to rather than just her middle grandchild. In the end though, he only said, "I don't think we're at all alike," and left her there to brood.

*

"How's med school treating Monty," Peter asks cautiously, as if he's trying to recall if the information he has about Monty is correct.

"He dropped out of the residency program," Simon says, but adds hastily, "Just a couple of weeks ago. He hasn't told anyone yet." He pauses to let Peter refill his wine glass, tells himself to sip rather than gulp, even though Peter doesn't seem to notice that Simon's emptying most of the bottle. "I think he has a hard time dealing with the pain." The way Monty put it, the bodies of the dying virtually screamed at him, an almost physical assault that he couldn't build a strong enough buffer against, not when they were in a hospital and surrounded by sickness. "I suggested law school, but I don't think he's interested. He says maybe engineering, I'm not sure."

Peter's lip quirks up in that particular way of his. "Engineering, huh? That's new. We've never had an engineer in the family before."

Simon shrugs. Truth is, Monty's as liable to become an engineer as Simon is to suddenly turn to nursing. He's just wasting time at this point, and in truth Simon would rather he do what Simon wanted him to do all along: pick something in the social sciences, anthropology or art history or something equally useless, but at least old bones and paintings wouldn't insist on yelling at him, crowding him with their incessant thoughts. Something safe. Medicine was only because Monty wanted to help people, above all else, and Simon's mostly surprised he even managed to make it through the pre-med program, let alone all the way through med school. But then again, Monty was always bone-headedly stubborn.

"He's a telepath, right?" Peter says.

"Yeah. Still unregistered," Simon says, and watches Peter exhale quietly. Telepaths got tagged automatically, power-suppressed because they were considered too dangerous, too influential. Nevermind that Monty was incapable of hurting anyone, ever, and the only times he abused his power, Simon knows, were those times when he was still willing to do favors for Simon, before his stupid fucking moral code got in the way. "We don't ever talk about what Monty can do, you understand?" This, even though it's not necessary, even though of course Peter of all people understands. Peter's solitary registered ability is regeneration - empaths get it even worse than the telepaths do. Peter only nods his head and re-fills Simon's glass of wine once again.

*

Despite everything, he was always the good kid. The one with the potential. The tragic older son of the Senator whose life was cut short in its prime. That Nathan Petrelli might have been President was something Simon heard perhaps once or twice in his entire life, but somehow it was one of the few things that stuck: his father might have been President.

Monty always said, "You try too hard to be like him."

"I don't try to be like him at _all._ I barely knew the man."

"Then why are you constantly chasing his shadow."

The problem with his brother was he just didn't understand. Or he did, and he refused to acknowledge that sometimes being a Petrelli meant you had to make - "Sacrifices," Monty scoffed, the way he always did. "This is your life, Simon. You only get one chance. One. You don't get to look back and think, 'oh, I wish I'd become a sculptor instead of trying to be President,' and then re-do it all over again."

"But I don't want to be a sculptor -"

"That's not the point."

"I think it is." It was, in fact, entirely the point. "What do you want, Monty. For me to throw away four years of pre-law just so I can join a hippie commune, pursue my bliss? Because I love the law, and that has nothing at all to do with Dad."

Monty always hated it when he put words to the unspoken truths between them. This was what Simon had wanted to be, ever since he was - "Twelve, I know, okay. Twelve. Meanwhile, I am not going to become a plastic surgeon."

"Oh, come on. You can separate siamese twins or something during your spare time. Inbetween building up and maintaining the very important assets of socialites. I'm sure Ma can give you all their numbers."

"I was thinking maybe cardiology. The intricacies of the heart and all that." He glared balefully at Simon. "I am not all heart, you big wuss. You're such a fucking poser." Simon couldn't help but laugh. He swatted Monty on the side of the head and Monty made a big show of moving away, mumbling about abuse and other nonsense. "Hey, you know," Monty said finally, when he sobered up, "maybe you can help at some point. I heard the Supreme Court just approved mandatory testing of all new-born babies to see if they bear the genetic marker or not. This on top of how we're supposed to fucking register so they can decide if we're dangerous enough to warrant being put on some highly addictive drug which, by the way, studies have shown leads to a marked increase in suicide among those forced on it."

"Monty," Simon said warningly. _Don't get involved._

"I'm not, okay. Don't worry," Monty told him. "It's just not fair. I can't even be myself."

"None of us can be ourselves, Monty," Simon said, and he looked away when Monty glared at him, affronted, as if Simon could ever understand what it was like. "Besides, the world isn't fair. We do what we can to get by."

*

Peter's kneeling at the grave, head bent down as if in prayer, except Simon knows that no one in this family believes in God anymore. He looks up as Simon nears, and for a second his face turns pale. He hides it well but Simon can see the soft shock of disappointment when he realizes that it's only Simon and not Nathan returned magically from death. Sometimes Simon wonders what it's like to love someone so much your entire life is defined by them, even years after they're gone. But then sometimes he doesn't have to wonder at all.

Peter gets up, brushes dirt off his pants before enveloping Simon in a brief hug. "I've been looking for you all day," Simon says, annoyed.

"What? Yeah, sorry. I leave my cell behind sometimes. Too much distraction."

Simon's gaze is drawn to the gravestone. _Nathan Petrelli, beloved son and father_ , it says. It doesn't say what it should: _beloved brother_ , and Simon's chest constricts briefly. Peter squeezes his arm reassuringly, and Simon wrenches it away. "I barely knew the man," he snaps. "Don't think I grieve. Look, you said that you know someone who can help us find Sylar. I need to know if you're willing to help me. I'll find him myself if you're not. Just give me this, this Molly person's address and I'll find her."

"You can't face Sylar alone," Peter says dangerously. "I won't allow you to." His gaze softens though, as Simon continues to glare at him. "I'm really sorry, it's just - it's been a rough few days. It always is, around now." But of course it is, it's just after Thanksgiving. Some years Simon manages to forget that this is the time of year that the Petrelli family mourns rather than celebrates, mostly the years when he's away from home. Somehow he doubts that Peter ever does.

"Just," he says, and his voice sounds gruff and unnatural to his ears, "let's get this over with. The sooner we find him the less clean-up I will have to do. It's already a mess. Thank god for all the holidays coming up; no one really wants to deal with a huge trial right about now."

"Of course," Peter says, and this time when he puts his hand on Simon's forearm and squeezes Simon doesn't pull away. "We need to go to India though. Chennai. That's where Molly is."

"Can't we just call her and ask her to find him," Simon says.

"I tried," Peter says, "but she hung up on me. Then her father got on the phone, and you have not been in hell until Mohinder Suresh has lectured you for an hour about upsetting his daughter. I tried explaining to him, and he said maybe if I came over I could convince her to change her mind. Well actually those were his parting words before he hung up on me. I don't think he meant it literally."

"So you expect us to get on a plane, all the way to Chennai, just to hold some little girl's hand?"

"She's older than you are," Peter says. "And yes, that's pretty much exactly what I expect us to do. Or just me. You don't have to come. Besides, it's not like we have a choice, Simon."

"Sure we do," Simon grouses. "She's an American citizen. By law she shouldn't even be with them in the first place." Peter just stares at him, until Simon shifts uncomfortably, tugs on his vest. "What?"

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

*

He doesn't expect Monty to be there when he stops by the apartment to get some clothes, but of course, why wouldn't Monty be there; he always dropped by whenever he felt like it and Simon had never discouraged his behavior. Until now, obviously, but Peter at least seems happy to see him. "Monty," he says, and the smile across his face is genuine and wide.

Monty just scowls. "What's he doing here?"

"He's helping me look for Sylar."

"Really? That's what you're doing now? You're looking for the serial killer who just about ruined your career by running away?"

"Well, that's why we're looking for him. If I can get him back perhaps I don't have to spend the rest of my life working down in the basement," Simon responds lightly, but Monty, with this particular expression on his face, can't be reasoned with, not usually. Best to just let him get his spiteful anger out and then be done with it.

"Oh, you haven't seen me properly spiteful yet, Simon," Monty says, but he's looking at Peter when he says it, and Peter's smile fades away.

"Maybe I should just -"

"How about a drink," Simon interjects. "I could use a fucking drink, how about it?"

Monty shrugs and slides his hands into his pockets defiantly, crisis temporarily averted. When Simon returns with glasses and a bottle of wine they're both seated on opposite ends of the couch, Peter slouched down low and Monty with his back straight and legs crossed. "I was telling your brother," Peter says, "that we're going to Chennai to find someone who can help us locate Sylar."

"And I was telling our uncle," Monty says, "that I wish my brother had a single living cell in his brain left, but of course he never listens to anyone, never has, and why should he start now?"

Peter only laughs for some reason and shakes his head, accepts the full glass that Simon passes to him. "I need to pack. How about I go pack, and you guys just - Yeah." He wonders briefly, as he's making his way to the bedroom, why exactly he feels compelled to do that, but then Monty wouldn't. He looks back and Monty's glaring at him with narrowed eyes. _You wouldn't._

"I wouldn't," Monty mouths, and he smirks.

 _Fuck you._

"It's funny. I used to think that you stopped by the house so often to see us?" Monty's saying when Simon returns back into the living room, overnight baggage in hand. "I looked forward to your visits. Then Dad left and you rarely came back, and after the funeral - well." Simon's slightly drunk, and maybe that's why he lets Monty keep talking, his voice clipped and angry, the way it gets when he's holding back deep resentment. Years past: Monty missed Peter and he missed Dad, and Simon held him close, soothed him or distracted him until he stopped sniffling.

Peter flushes, the red spreading across his cheeks as delicately as a bruise. It's odd; he can see Grandma in his face, even a hint of Monty, when they're sitting close like this, but not Nathan. There's nothing at all in Peter's face that reminds him of his father. Of course, for that he doesn't have to go far; the mirror is a constant reminder that he is and forever will be Nathan Petrelli's son, and for some reason it makes him resent his father even more. He'd be an old bastard now if he'd lived, not the handsome Senator who died at the prime of his life. "That was mostly your mother's doing," Peter says now.

"So it's my mother's fault you were a shitty uncle?"

"No, that's not it," Peter cuts in hastily. "We decided it was for the best, all of us. If we kept you away from the family. Heidi, she did the right thing." He shudders. "Our lives back then - we tried our best to shield you from that. That was the only way we could protect you. Nathan - your father. He wanted only to protect you."

Simon just wants this to stop now. _That's enough, Monty. Please,_ he projects, and Monty closes his mouth abruptly, snaps it shut with an audible click. But then his head tilts, and he says, "I think it's just that he didn't love either one of us as much as he loved you. Tell me that isn't true. Tell me."

Peter's lips tighten, but he doesn't respond.

Afterwards, when the conversation has stuttered into one long, awkward pause, and Simon finally manages to get him to agree to leave, Monty grabs his arm and almost drags him out into the hallway. "Be safe, okay?"

Simon reaches out to cup his face with one hand. _I will._

 

 

### 3.

Sometimes Simon wonders about the exact details of what happened back then, when Dad died, everything that Grandma and Claire try to hide from them and Peter refuses to speak about. "It was a long time ago," is all anyone will ever say, their faces immediately closing down in a manner that refutes further conversation. Even Sylar's surprisingly reticent, for all that the man loves to hear the sound of his own voice. He could always just ask Monty to find out, but again it's a thought that's too huge to bear and in any case, at some point Monty decided he just wasn't going to help Simon anymore, nevermind that Simon protected him from being tagged by the evo-squads.

"You can turn me in if you want to," he said petulantly, and then stomped off in his way, secure in the knowledge that it was the one thing that Simon wouldn't do, no matter what. Of course, that didn't stop Monty from reading Simon's mind whenever he felt like it, but these days Simon's so used to not having to articulate his thoughts around his brother he's not sure what he'd do if Monty did stop. Mere words now seem clumsy when it comes to speaking to Monty, inadequate.

"You're such an asshole sometimes," Monty liked to say, but so very fondly, and it used to bother Simon a little that Monty saw all of him, every part that he dared not show to the world, but now it's just reassuring to know that someone loves him despite knowing exactly who he is. "Because," Monty said once, and they were doing nothing but having dinner, and Simon's thoughts were idle and drifting. He'd snapped to automatically when Monty said it and raised a brow, and Monty continued calmly, "I love you _because_ I know exactly who you are. Not despite." Simon shook his head, unsure how to respond to that. But then again, with Monty he never needed to. "Your steak is getting cold," Monty said, abruptly switching the subject, and Simon smiled tiredly at him, picked up his fork and knife.

*

They book the flight to Chennai; Simon thinks maybe there'll be an issue with him getting first class seats; _everyone_ in the family knows about Peter's magnanimity, his refusal to live off the family wealth, but Peter doesn't comment and Simon's slightly relieved. He's not sure he wants to get into this right now, not with his uncle. Not when the conversation is bound to sound suspiciously like the ones he had with Monty, where he prattles on about privilege and class and Simon projects irritation at him that he soundly ignores. He's always figured it was something Monty would get over at some point, but from the way Peter still lives, it might just be a horrible life-time affliction. Customs doesn't go as smoothly as the flight does: Peter's pulled away almost immediately upon arrival, and it's only when Simon snaps, "I'm his attorney," that he's allowed to tag along.

The interview reads far more like an interrogation than anything else: _What's your reason for visiting Chennai?_ , and _What's your ability again? Yes, please explain to us one more time Are you certain that's all you can do?_ , and _Why does your attorney share your last name, are you married or related to one another?_

All questions Peter answers with the air of someone who's been forced to respond to the exact same questions a million times before, and most likely he has. Simon snaps at the first utterly useless, invasive one, but Peter's fingers briefly land on his thigh under the table, and after that he just keeps silent, observes and glowers until finally, _finally_ , the Customs Agent smiles and says, "Welcome to India, Mr Petrelli. Enjoy your stay."

"Everywhere you go," Simon asks when they're safely enconsed in the cab and on the way to Mohinder Suresh's house.

"Pretty much, yeah." Peter's smile is wry, mostly resigned. "You get used to it after a while. Regens get it especially bad though, at airports and the like." At Simon's raised brow he continues, spreading his fingers out in the shape of a small mushroom cloud. "They're always afraid we'll strap a bomb to ourselves or something. Suicide bombers without the suicide."

"Ah," Simon says, and they don't speak for the rest of the ride there.

*

The Gurkha guarding the entrance of the Suresh residence looks right past Simon as if he's invisible, focuses his gaze directly onto Peter. He can feel Peter tense up beside him, and there's a slight shift in the air, almost tangible. Simon thinks for a moment that they'll start fighting, right here in the middle of this quiet neighborhood, shooting electricity out of their palms in brilliant shades of red or blue, but in the end the guard only nods his head sharply, says, "Mr. Suresh is expecting you," and opens the gate to let them both in.

Inside the house, Mohinder Suresh greets Peter with a handshake which quickly turns into a hug that lingers slightly too long, and Simon turns away briefly to give them their privacy. "It's good to see you, Mohinder," Peter says, and his voice holds a warmth that Simon's not heard before. "How did you know I was coming?"

"Molly," Mohinder says. "She had a hunch, so she's been tracking you. It's good to see you as well, Peter. How many years has it been? Two? I wish you'd take me up on my offer to drop by more often and not just when you need my daughter's help." He doesn't sound angry though, just vaguely amused, as if he's used to this.

"Because Chennai is right next door to New York, I forget," Peter says wryly.

"For you? Certainly."

Simon clears his throat, wonders briefly if just about everyone knows that Peter had gotten all his powers back, if he'd made an announcement in the newspaper or something. Mohinder's turned his gaze towards him now, one hand still wrapped casually around Peter's shoulder. "Simon Petrelli, I take it. It's a pleasure to meet you. I must say, your resemblance towards your father is startling."

"Yeah, except my eyes are blue," Simon says, keeping his voice genial.

He takes the hand that Suresh extends to him, follows him into the living room. Peter grabs a seat on the couch, as comfortable here as he is in his own home, gratefully accepting the cup of tea that's given to him by a woman that he gets up to hug as well. "My wife, Mira," Mohinder tells Simon. "Mira, this is Simon Petrelli."

"Nice to meet you, Simon," she says, shaking his hand before she turns to Mohinder. "I'll go get Molly then? If I can drag her away from that insane wedding planner of hers. The woman drives me crazy."

"Wedding planner?" Peter says, once Mira is gone.

"Molly sent you the invitation two weeks ago, Peter. Don't tell me you have yet to receive it."

Peter runs his hand through his hair sheepishly. "I've been a little distracted, sorry. Haven't opened my mail in a few days. When's the wedding?"

"Next month. I expect you to be there. His name's Anil. He's a professor at Chennai U. Mira still blames me for them getting together, she claims I set them up. I'd point out that I am hardly capable of influencing even the slightest of Molly's decisions, let alone the biggest one of her life, but I don't think she buys it."

"What can he do?"

"What," Mohinder frowns at Simon, deliberately misunderstanding.

"Isn't your government force-marrying specials? So they'll be guaranteed to have extra-special babies?"

"No, that's - those are baseless accusations," Mohinder says, then adds pointedly, "India doesn't require registration of powers, unlike the US, I'm sure you're well aware of that. We don't even make them suppress their abilities if they're deemed unstable or dangerous."

"Yeah, you just kidnap them and drag them into yet another futile offense at the Kashmir border. Or are those baseless accusations as well?"

"So," Mohinder says, turning abruptly towards Peter, "Exactly like his father then."

"Wow, I leave you guys alone for five minutes and already we're arguing?" The voice from the doorway is light and cheerful, and Simon immediately takes a liking to its owner, and not just because she probably just prevented an unpleasant international incident. Or him getting thrown through a wall; he'd entirely forgotten that Mohinder's ability is super strength.

Molly Walker smiles, and Peter opens his arms, waits to envelope her in a hug.

*

"Sure, I can help you find Sylar, if that's what you want," Molly says, but her pretty face turns into a frown, and Simon tries to remember if Sylar tried to kill her once, too. Then he recalls: the parents, right. As well as her. They have something in common then, and maybe that's why she turns to him and says, "Why are you helping him? He's a monster. You know that."

"He's not harmed anyone in over twenty years," Peter says gently.

"Well hey, give the man a medal for living up to the expectations put upon the rest of humanity. My parents are still dead." Her tone deepens, turns sharp. "Nathan is still dead." Peter pales slightly but says nothing, and Molly finally just slams a map book on the table, turns page after page with one hand, the other one hovering above it with a thumbtack, her gaze focused inward. She stops somewhere in the middle and her hand moves, thumbtack settling at the lower corner of the page. "There," she says, and shoves the book in Simon's direction. "He's here."

Peter looks at the map and frowns. "I know where that is," he says softly, almost to himself.

"Peter," Molly says, "I hope -" She stops though, and shakes her head, and this is who they all are, broken pieces barely put together again, to the point where it's easier to just keep your head down, keep quiet, don't bring up the past because that's when the glue you use to carefully reassemble yourself starts to melt, and you start falling apart again. "I hope you'll come to the wedding," she says finally. "Anil - you haven't met him yet, my fiancé. He says you'll be there, but I keep telling him that the future is always in flux when it comes to you." She moves forward, and the hug that she gives Peter is the hug you give to someone infinitely fragile. Peter hugs her back, tight, and over her shoulder he stares at Simon, the expression on his face flickering and unreadable.

*

Chennai is too much color, too much brightness and far too many people. Simon retreats to his hotel room even though the Sureshes quietly insist that they stay with them, that they have room. Peter seems to want to say yes, but Simon glowers until he finally declines, hugs Molly once more and then Mohinder as well, whispers something into his ear that Simon doesn't catch but makes Mohinder smile fully. He's still handsome now, but the smile brings out an echo of who he must have been at some point, and Simon blinks at the image that rises, of him and Peter, sweat-slick and naked, moving together under silken sheets. He flushes involuntarily, tries his best to wash the image away, barely speaks until they're almost at the hotel. "We could have stayed, you know," Peter says mildly, as if Simon's response bears no interest to him.

"I don't know those people," Simon snaps. "And I wish you'd be more careful as well. He works for the Indian government."

Peter sighs, and for some reason Simon feels his disappointment as a pinprick, sharp under his skin. "He's not your enemy, Simon. He's just a guy, like I am. We're all just trying to live through this as best we can."

"Yeah, well. I think I will feel better from the comfort of my own hotel room, thanks. When does our flight leave again?"

"Wednesday night. Relax, it's only, what, another seventy-two hours? I'm sure you'll survive."

The first thing he does when he gets to his room is call Monty. He sounds distracted when he picks up the phone, but he warms up when Simon says hello. "How's Chennai? Found the big bad Sylar yet?"

"You're amazingly flippant for someone who just a few days ago was freaking out over me pissing all over Dad's grave."

"Yeah, I told you I'm over that now." He chuckles, but then his tone turns serious. "I just - I don't know how much it'll help, Simon. It's kind of bad right now, I don't think you're aware. It's practically a witch hunt at this point."

"If anyone deserves to be witch hunted," Simon says lightly, but his heart isn't in it. He has to hand it to Sylar; the man was good at reading the audience. Even if the audience was a national, if not a global one. All of whom seem to want nothing but blood, and if he could believe that Sylar was just the sacrifice, that the heat would die down after him, then it might just be worth it. Simon doesn't particularly care about his reputation at this point; it would land where it did, and above all else, he's still a Petrelli and his family legacy will survive this if nothing else. Except of course Sylar might just be the the straw that broke the camel's back. _Internment camps. Experiments. Extermination._ Peter had laid it out for him, during their seemingly interminable flight to Chennai. The end of the world, over and over again. The end of Simon's world, if anything bad happened to Monty.

"Hey, bro. You still there?"

"Yeah, I'm still here," Simon says thickly. "I have to - I have to trust in due process, Monty. I have to trust that it won't fail us."

"And if it does?"

"Then I don't know. But I - I love you, okay. Trust me."

"I always do. Oh hey, buy Natalie something nice."

"What?"

"Natalie. You know, my girlfriend. The one I told you about just last week," Monty says, and he sounds amused so Simon relaxes.

"I'm sorry, Monty, for not being able to keep track of the numerous girls that pop in and out of your life."

"Yeah, whatever."

"I'll do my best. Inbetween catching my runaway serial killer, not like that's important or anything." He hangs up to the sound of laughter in his ears.

*

Simon finds Peter sitting near the window of the hotel restaurant. He holds up one hand when Simon slides in across from him, goes back to barking into his cell. Simon picks up a menu and surreptitiously watches him from under it. Animated like this, he has to consciously remind himself that Peter is nearing fifty, not Simon's age or even younger. That he's related to Simon by blood. Mohinder comes into his mind once again, replaced quickly by Dad. Nathan, and there's something Monty had said in passing once that he suddenly recalls. Just the once, cryptically. Simon hadn't read much into it then, and maybe he's jumping to conclusions even now. Sitting here though, Simon can almost see it, and it's startling to consider: it's not revulsion he feels. Fucked up. This family is so fucked up.

He forces his attention back to the menu and idly decides on what he wants to eat until Peter snaps the phone shut, says, "Sorry. Business. Apparently I'm not allowed to just disappear whenever I feel like it."

"Right. I forget - you run that NGO, yeah?"

Peter's mouth twitches. "Most of the time it runs me." The cell starts ringing again, and Peter says, "Case in point."

Ten minutes later they finally get around to chasing down a waiter; Simon's starving and orders for them both. "Have you stayed here before," he asks once the waiter has slid away.

"No. I usually just stay with Mohinder. I like it here though. Everything changes, but at the same time, you kind of feel that two centuries from now, all of this will still be here, mostly."

"I'll be dead in two centuries," Simon says.

Peter avoids his gaze. "Yeah, I guess you will. Just Claire and me. And Sylar. Sometimes I wish I hadn't gotten my abilities back. Not aging is over-rated."

"Claire keeps telling me the same thing."

"Yeah," Peter says, and toys with his water glass. "I wish you'd known him better, you know. He was - he was a good man. He loved you a lot."

"I'm sure he did," Simon says. "Too bad Sylar had to kill him."

"Maybe you can tell him that when we catch his sorry ass."

"Yeah, maybe. He never asks me to forgive him. I don't think it registers that it matters to me still." Then again, it's not about forgiveness. None of them can _forgive._ Mostly it's about moving on. Finally.

*

They get drunk on wine, or at least Simon does; he's pretty sure that Peter, like Claire, doesn't get inebriated that easily - one of the perks, or the disadvantages, of being a regen. At one point, three bottles in and Peter's lips pink from the wine and his cheekbones high and slightly flushed, he says, voice flat and distant, "Emma, my ex? We thought she was pregnant once. I was so fucking happy, I've always wanted kids, but Emma. She cried for days and days, and neither of us could talk about how slim the odds were that two specials wouldn't have a special child. And hers is fine, no one really cares. But mine, or anything remotely close to mine, and people come knocking on your door and they give you _options_ , as if the choice between a lifetime of drugs or selling yourself to the government can be called a choice. National Security, they say. I just - we found out she wasn't, but nothing was the same after that. We just couldn't get past it." He smiles and attempts to pour himself another drink, then gives up and takes a swig from the bottle itself.

"Did you ever think maybe, if you could go back in time and change what happened? Not let Claire do what she did."

Peter smiles. "The last time I saw Hiro Nakamura he told me he was going to go back to Feudal Japan and stay there for the rest of his natural life. According to him, it's better to have your powers and not use them than to be forced to take power suppressants. The Japanese government is still overreacting quite a bit, so I can't say I blame him. Besides, Hiro hates Sylar."

"Why," Simon asks, before he can stop himself. "Did Sylar kill his father too?"

"No," Peter says, after a beat. "But Hiro still believes that the world is made out of heroes and villains, and he's always on the side of the good."

"And you, what do you believe?"

"Well, I'm here, aren't I?"

Shades of gray. Simon knows all about that, and so does Peter, mostly from lessons learnt the hard way. Mostly from lessons learnt from Dad. And maybe that's why he doesn't resent Peter as much as he probably should. All he remembers of Nathan is hugs and baseball games and most of all, his strong, reassuring presence, larger than life, whenever he was around. Simon never knew his father well enough or long enough to be let down by him, which is a blessing in many ways, even though he still feels, half the time, as if he's trying, and failing, to live up to his legacy.

"Were you and Sylar - close," he asks, the question that he's been wanting to ask for a while now and always found inappropriate. It's also the easier question to ask.

Peter flinches, then says carefully, "Is that what Sylar told you?"

"What Sylar told me is confidential. I'm asking you." He had asked Sylar, but been given a smarmy non-reply in return, something to do with a shared connection and a history that could not be denied. Sylar was very good at non-replies, even towards the one person he shouldn't lie to.

"It's complicated."

"How complicated can it be? You were either fucking or you weren't. Tell you what, if you accidentally made out that one time you were both drunk you can say no. Otherwise it's essentially a yes or no answer."

"Not been around a lot of specials, have you?" He laughs and tips his glass in Simon's direction. "Trust me when I say it's complicated. Look," he pauses, as if weighing what to say, then shakes his head, says with finality, "I never once forgot that he killed Nathan, not once."

"That doesn't answer the question."

"Yeah," Peter says. "Yeah it does."

"Can you time travel?" Simon asks, a shot in the dark, but he knows people, and he knows what the answer to this will be.

"What makes you think that?"

"Call it a wild guess."

Peter shrugs, an easy confession of having an ability that almost all governments in the world would kill for. There's only one registered time-traveler, and he's long gone, to the point where he's more myth than anything else. "I wish I could say that it would have been better if Claire hadn't thrown herself off of that ferris wheel," Peter says finally, "but they would have found out anyway, regardless. The last time I tried - well, a version of me tried, it didn't work out so well. So no, I can't. I don't. Teleportation, time travel. Ever."

Sometimes Simon felt as if he was doing nothing but cleaning up the messes that the older generation had left behind, unsure about the details of it all but forced to live with its repercussions, with the sudden deaths and the disappearances and the air of grief and loss and fear that sometimes surrounded them so thickly he couldn't breathe. He always imagined that someday he'd manage to figure out the truth, everything that had happened, and it would all make sense. Most of it he imagined centered around Sylar, but even now, with access to all of Sylar's history, it's as if he's still only holding a tiny piece of the puzzle, and a blurred one at that, and there's no one left alive enough or unscarred enough to pass down the story: this is what happened to us, and we're sorry. We tried our best.

This, at least, Simon knows to be true. Everyone tried their best. "I don't suppose," he says haltingly, "you want to tell me about that."

Peter eyes him speculatively, thoughtfully. "What did you want to know, exactly."

"We could start simple. Tell me who my father was."

"Wow," Peter says, and he puts the wine glass down on the table. "Yeah, I guess I owe you that much, right?"

"You don't owe me anything at all, Peter. But the truth would be nice."

 

 

### 4.

The list of things he makes a point not to ask Peter includes: Could you fly like Dad could?

A man who could break the sound barrier, who never once thought that his own sons might want to know what that felt like. Perhaps he thought he was protecting them, but Simon's read enough of Nathan's files to know that he'd taken Peter up at least, and most likely Claire as well. Of course, those were usually when one or both of their lives were in peril, but that's not the point, usually.

Monty always knew. He told Simon once, when Simon was eighteen and packing to go away to college. "If only you could do what Dad could do," he mumbled at the entrance to Simon's room, leaning into the doorframe as if he'd fall down if it weren't there to support him. "You could just fly there and be back here in time for dinner. We'd never even miss you for a day."

"What?" Simon said, confused. "I don't think they allowed fighter pilots to use the jets as their own personal transport, Monty."

"No - I mean, what Dad could?" He made an airplane zooming motion with his arm, angled up, up and away. "Mom didn't tell you? Our father was Superman. Well, except for the being from Krypton part. And the super strength. And the laser eyes. Okay, maybe only the flying part."

Simon gaped, and he looked like he wanted to deny it, but Monty didn't lie, not to him. "Oh wow, you didn't - I'm sorry, I always thought you - I don't know why I did, you never thought about it, but then you never think of Dad, so I just figured." He stopped babbling long enough for it to sink in, and of course in retrospect it made absolute sense. Claire and Peter and Grandma and Monty, it was hereditary, almost to a fault. "Yeah," Simon said.

"I wonder why it skipped you, though. Guess you take after Mom."

"Guess so." Guess he was just _lucky_ , then.

"For some variations of luck, at least," Monty said, and he smiled. "At least you'll have a normal life."

Simon said, "For some variations of normalcy, at least." He never asked how Monty knew. Monty gathered stray thoughts and memories like a gardener gathered weeds, and in this house, very often there was nothing but stray thoughts, but mostly there were memories. Simon may have been the one who remembered their father, but it was Monty who _knew_ him, or at least knew how others saw him, as a son or a husband or even a brother, whenever Peter bothered to show up.

"I could show you, if you want," Monty said hesitantly, because they weren't allowed to talk about What Monty Could Do. "Just," he stepped forward and put his palms on either side of Simon's face. "It'd be easy, I think." But Simon pulled away, almost forcefully. He took a few steps backwards even though he suspected distance wasn't really an issue with Monty, he could probably do this from wherever, and Monty just stood there with his hands raised almost comically in thin air before he lowered them slowly and said, "One day, Simon. When you're not afraid, I'll show you."

*

Two hours on the phone with the airline on the second night, trying his best to get a damned flight out until the words "Do you know who I am?" actually escape his mouth, and then Simon just gives up, slams the phone down, angry with himself, mostly for being impatient. For worrying that Sylar wouldn't be there by the time they reach the place. "He's been there for a while," Molly had said. "I don't think he's going anywhere." He has no reason not to trust her.

"Do you have her power now," he asks Peter at some point, but Peter only shakes his head.

"I've never been able to hold on to hers for some reason. I'm not sure why." But then Peter puts his hands on his shoulders and says, small smile on his face, "Come on, we'll just fly there," and he doesn't mean by plane.

"Why didn't we just come here this way," Simon asks, before they take flight.

"I never," Peter says, soft and broken. "I'm sorry. I just couldn't," and Simon buries his annoyance, wraps his arms around Peter's waist instead. "Hold on tight."

*

The house is quiet as they approach it, windows dark and empty. Simon walks in front, but when they reach the door Peter puts a hand out and pushes him back before he can knock. Simon moves to the side, tries to peer in the window but it's too dark to see. "Looks like there's no one home," he says.

Peter only shrugs. "But hey, the door's unlocked."

Simon frowns at him. "No, I don't think it wa- nevermind."

Inside, the house is still and feels entirely unoccupied. Peter opens his palm and a soft red flame emanates from it, illuminating them in a soft glow. And that's power number three. Maybe Simon should start making a list. Or just ask the man. Instead he looks around, locates the nearest light switch. Peter puts his arm down when Simon switches on the lights, tilts his head up towards the ceiling. "Strange," he says. "Seems like no one's home."

"Maybe he's upstairs."

"He's not upstairs. Hang on, I'll call Molly."

"Please do. Ask her why she's wasting our time," Simon says, scowling.

Peter shoots him a look. "Wow, your trust in other people is outstanding."

"It's not like I _know_ the girl. Sylar killed her parents. If I were her I might send us on a wild goose chase as well."

"It's not her," Peter says, and dials the number. Simon wanders around the house for a bit, touches a table covered with a fine layer of dust. Peter's nodding his head, "Uh-huh, yeah okay. No, if you can't, I understand. Sorry, hey. I'll try, okay? Thanks. Bye."

"Well?"

"She tried again. Said someone's blocking her - she doesn't know who."

"Can people even do that? I thought you said she can find anyone in the world."

"Apparently someone can," Peter says quietly. "I don't want to get her further involved in this if I can help it. We'll figure something out. This isn't - Sylar doesn't have this kind of power. Are you sure he left voluntarily?"

"How the fuck should I know," Simon snits. "One day he's whining about how he can't believe people are actually holding him accountable for his actions and the next day he's gone. I jumped to the obvious conclusion." Peter puts his hand on Simon's arm, and it's all Simon can do not to jerk away. Grandma does the exact same thing whenever she wants to get her way and Simon's never gotten used to it. Never wanted to. He's not a wild animal to be calmed down, just understandably upset. His fucking career is probably over at this point, because some serial killer decided he's going to ruin his life, once again. "Peter," Simon says, with clarity. "You should have killed the son of a bitch when you had the chance."

"Hindsight," Peter says. "I always figured I'd get around to it eventually."

Simon opens his mouth to respond, but then the world turns black.

*

By the time he got to college, interest in the specials had died down, just a little. The courses about the specials were still the most popular ones; everyone, it seemed, wanted to discuss them, even years after the reveal. Genetics and mutation and comic books come to life, from the X-Men to the Justice League. He was in his first year when the Ninth Wonder series came to light. Simon wondered why it had taken them so long, but Monty said, with the air of someone who had insider knowledge, which meant he'd taken the information from someone's head, Claire's most likely, "I'm pretty sure it was an open underground secret for years. Just took a while for the press to catch on, especially when so many people are invested in the knowledge not getting out. Besides, comic books that tell the future? Crazy, right?"

Simon did his best to avoid all of it, disappear into the crowd, but it wasn't always easy when he was just about the only person in the entire school actually featured, albeit briefly, in the comics. He refused to read them, even though Monty did.

"Don't you want to know a little about who Dad was, Simon? He was a hero. Kind of."

"No." It was bad enough that everyone now knew all the sordid details of the last three years of his father's life. He certainly didn't need to. All he really remembered was Ma suddenly being able to walk, and then her dragging the both of them off to a new house and Dad being around even less than he usually was. Half his face obscured by his beard at the gate of their school, telling them, "I'm coming home, I promise." Simon still thought he was wonderful then, his father. Still worshipped him more than anything.

But he was never good at laying low, despite his best efforts. "You just attract attention, Simon. That's who you are," Ma told him once, and that was the truth. Friends came and went, and eventually Simon came to recognize those who were chasing the notoriety of his family name and steered clear of them, although he never let his guard down long enough for any one of them to get under his skin.

*

Simon thinks he's dying for a while, and then the pain hits and he only wishes he were. At some point Peter's there, his hand on his brow, mouthing words that Simon can't hear, but he nods his head anyway because it seems like that's the appropriate course of action to take. _No, I'm fine. Just put a bullet in me, put me out of my misery. Send my love to my brother._ Nothing makes sense, just sounds and touch and occasionally water down his throat, and then he goes down again.

It's night when he first opens his eyes and starts to feel remotely human again. Peter is curled up on a chair nearby. Simon tries to move but it hurts and so he stops, just lies there and breathes, and when his gaze refocuses, Peter's awake and staring at him. He gets up and kneels down at the side of the bed, his hand smoothing over Simon's hair. "What, what the -"

"There was an explosion," Peter says. "I tried shielding you, but not well enough. You'll be fine, you just need some rest."

"Why aren't I - shouldn't I be in a hospital?" This isn't a hospital, this much he can see. It looks like nothing more than a motel room, and not a very good one at that.

"We're in Arizona," Peter says gently. "I'm sorry, neither one of us officially entered the country, and I didn't want to fly you back to India when you were in this condition. Besides, I was a nurse at one point, remember. I still remember some things about caring for the injured." His face turns grave. "I would have brought you in if I thought for a second that your life was at risk."

Simon risks moving once more, and it turns out to be a terrible idea, but Peter's on him in a heartbeat, helping him to shift into a more comfortable position. "Can't you just," he says, when the thought occurs to him. "Your blood."

"No, it doesn't work that way," Peter says. "I'm not a regen naturally, just an empath. My blood doesn't heal."

"Shame," Simon replies, but he's tired, and he closes his eyes once more, drifts away.

When he wakes up he feels less light-headed, and his body hurts slightly less. He yawns as Peter says, "Think you're up for some food? I went down and bought us some breakfast."

Simon tries sitting up and he's surprised when he manages it without Peter's help. "Guess I'm not going to die after all," he tells Peter.

"Guess not. I'm glad, your mother would kill me if anything happened to you."

"It's not my mother you have to worry about, it's yours," Simon says, gratefully accepting the foil-wrapped packet that Peter holds out to him. It looks like a pita of some kind, but it doesn't taste at all like one. "This is good," he mumbles around a mouthful, suddenly starving.

Peter flashes him a smile, his fingers coming up to wipe something off the side of Simon's mouth. Simon's breath catches, wholly unexpectedly, and Peter's hand stills before he drops it awkwardly to his side, his face suddenly blank and closed off. It's not an expression that suits him. Peter's not yet been this guarded around him; like Monty in many ways, he seems to come with some sort of implicit trust, although whether it's in Simon particularly or not, he doesn't know. "Finish your breakfast," Peter says finally, his voice settling heavily in the room. "I'll go out, buy a newspaper or something." He's gone before Simon can even formulate a response.

He comes back empty-handed and sits by the bed. "Someone tried to kill us," he says. "They set a trap."

"Yeah, I figured as much. What clued you in?"

Peter gazes thoughtfully at him. "Look, I think you should go home, okay? This will probably be dangerous. Whoever this is, whoever took Sylar, he's dangerous. I'll drop you back in Chennai when you're up to it, you can fly back to New York. I'll find whoever did this, somehow."

"What, no," Simon says, gaping at him. "Are you out of your fucking mind?"

"No, but I'm your uncle," Peter reminds him, entirely unnecessarily, Simon thinks. "I'm responsible for you and your well-being. I couldn't live with myself if -" He shakes his head. "There's been too much death in this family already. I can't - won't, lose you too."

"I'm not going anywhere."

"Don't think you have a choice," Peter snaps, and Simon wants to punch him. Probably would, if he didn't think he has the strength of a kitten right about now. Besides, the bastard heals, and there's never any fun in that. "You could have died. Can you get that through your stupid skull? I'll fly you back by force if necessary. Don't make this more difficult than it is, Simon."

"Then don't take my choices away from me. I brought you here, remember? Sylar's my responsibility, this is my case. What the fuck, Peter," The last sentence comes out ragefully; it's been a while since anyone has dared to tell him what to do. It's just not done and he's not entirely sure how to react to it. Especially since Peter's right - if he wants to grab Simon and fly them the fuck out of here, plop him back in his hotel room in Chennai like a wayward child, Simon can't do a damn thing about it. "Don't do this, please." He grabs Peter's wrist as hard as he can, pulls him close. Peter jerks in surprise, but he doesn't make any effort to free himself. Instead he drops his eyes to Simon's lips, and then back up. And Simon thinks: _fuck this_ , and kisses him.

*

The first girl he ever fell in love with, the one he was convinced was The One, was a first year law student he met at a party that he hadn't even wanted to go to in the first place, dragged there by a roommate who claimed that Simon's insistence on burying himself in his books was sucking the joy right out of life. "It's as if _that's_ your superpower, dude," he said, and Simon sighed and forced himself to show up. Her name was Irena, and she spilled her drink all over the front of Simon's shirt, and she was tiny and blonde and almost startlingly pretty. They ended up making out in an upstairs bedroom, barricading themselves against the noise of the music and the people outside.

It lasted two years, until she brought him home to meet her parents for the first time, and her father shook his hand firmly and said, "Petrelli, right. You wouldn't happen to be of _those_ Petrellis, would you? The one with that Claire girl and her, is it her father or something?"

"Her uncle," Simon said tightly. "She's my half sister."

"Right, right," he said, face hard and suspicious. "But you don't have an ability?"

"No, no I don't."

"Your children might though?"

"Dad -" Irina said, her face flushing with embarrassment.

"Shut it. I just want to know if my grandchildren might be freaks or not. I think I'm entitled to ask, aren't I, Mr. Petrelli?"

The dinner didn't go so well after that. Nor did their relationship, strained by her parents' disapproval and Simon's own stubborn rage, even though Irena insisted that she didn't care what her parents thought, she was her own woman and made her own damned choices. "Besides," she told him once, her eyes bright as she curved one hand around his waist. "If we do someday get married and have kids, who's to say I wouldn't want a child with an ability. Just think, we could be parents to a child who can heal you with a mere touch."

"Or one that could blow up a city by accident. Or cause a massive earthquake. Or grow up to be Sylar."

He stepped away from her and she reacted as if she'd been slapped, but she only reached out once more, until she realized he wasn't going to give in. "I didn't mean anything by it," she started.

"Don't. Don't. I don't know which is worse, those of you who hate the specials or those who act as if they're their groupies." He paused, and took a deep breath before he burned the bridge. "I will not be your fucking sperm donor for your super-special child," he finished slowly, and watched as her face crumbled, and he stomped off as she started to cry. It took him about a month to get over the constant need to return her phonecalls, to make it right somehow, but instead he just started publicly sleeping with a string of girls, and a fair share of boys, whose names and faces he barely remembered afterwards, until she stopped.

"I knew she wasn't right for you," Monty said soothingly over the phone, because he was under the impression that Irena was the bad guy in this. "There are plenty of other fish in the sea."

"I'm sure there are," Simon intoned. "Plenty."

*

Peter refuses to speak more than five words to him after that, but he doesn't fly Simon back to Chennai either. Instead he hovers around, giving him food and water, helping him to the bathroom when he needs it, but doing so in such a detached, professional manner that Simon doesn't even know how to react, except for once, when he says, "We really should talk about -"

"I'm your uncle," Peter says, as if that's all that needs to be said.

"Yes, but -"

"No."

"Fine," Simon says, throwing his hands up in frustration. "My brother's not wrong though. You were never much of an uncle until now."

"Better late than never. And I'm not going to ruin it by giving in to," he takes a deep, shuddering breath. "Whatever madness this is. This is _wrong._ "

"Who are you trying to convince?"

It happens in the end, mostly because it seems like it was always destined to. One moment sliding into the next, and the next, and Simon knows exactly when it is that Peter gives in, when his eyes hood and his breath shallows and he says, "No" once more, but his palms are against Simon's chest and he's not pushing him away. Simon's not stupid, he knows this is messed up just as much as he knows how much he wants it, how much Peter, despite his denials, wants it. His uncle's the loneliest man Simon's ever met, and Simon knows himself well enough to know it's not altruism that drives him to this, but if he thinks about it too hard it feels like it will break, so instead he just pulls Peter to him and doesn't think at all.

Monty would have an explanation of course. He'd say something about how Simon has daddy issues, how he's just trying to connect to the one person who knew his father better than anyone, loved him better than anyone, or something equally ridiculous like that. But Monty's not here, and it's with a slight jolt that he realizes he's not thought of or called Monty in days. That's never happened before. "Fuck," he swears.

Peter jerks his head up.

"Nothing, just - I have to call my brother. Toss me my phone?"

"You son of a bitch," is the first thing Monty says.

"Good to hear from you too, Monty."

"I called the hotel. I called Mohinder. Your cell goes to voicemail and no one knows where you are and you're chasing after the world's most notorious serial killer. Tell me something, Simon. What the fuck was I supposed to think?" Simon's never quite heard that particular tone in Monty's voice before. Low and hoarse and - he's been crying, he realizes belatedly.

"I'm sorry," he says, because that's all he can say, meaning it more than anything, and it takes him a moment to realize Monty can't read his mind now, won't be able to tell how truly horrified he is. "I'm so sorry. Don't be mad."

"I just. I thought you were dead, okay. Simon -" There's a rustling over the line and when Monty speaks again he sounds slightly more calm. "When are you coming home?"

"Soon. I don't know. We still haven't found him. I'll be back as soon as I can. I promise."

"Yeah, okay. Listen, you're not missing, okay? No one's tracking you down. I made a few phonecalls, everything's taken care of." Which means he either called Grandma or he called Claire. "I mean, another couple of days and I would have called a press conference and made the whole world go looking for you, but we avoided that particular disaster at least."

Peter's gazing at him with concern when he finally manages to get off the line after repeated reasurances that he will try his best not to die anytime soon. "He okay?"

"He'll be fine." Simon shrugs, embarrassed suddenly. "He just worries."

"Yeah, I know what that's like," Peter says, and his smile is a secret that makes Simon's gut twist.

 

 

### 5.

Peter brings back a laptop at some point, makes about a dozen phonecalls. "I'm trying to figure out who might want to take Sylar," he tells Simon.

"That's a long list, don't you think?"

"Yeah, but a fair number of them are dead."

"I can help," Simon says. "I have all the casefiles, if you have access to the internet."

It takes days before they even have a reasonable list of possibles put together, but for the first time, Simon doesn't mind so much. Doesn't feel as if the weight of his impending career death is breaking his back. Mostly, all he really wants is to lie here and curl around Peter. Bury himself in sound and touch and taste. Peter's eyes always look guilty, and Simon doesn't need Monty here to tell him what he's thinking. In truth, none of Peter's words seem to have any effect on what their bodies seem intent on doing. _You're my nephew,_ Peter had said earlier, but what he was thinking was: You're Nathan's son. He wouldn't forgive me for this.

Well, fuck Nathan, Simon thinks and bites down on Peter's lower lip hard enough to break the skin and watch it heal almost immediately after he pulls away. "Like magic," he says, and Peter laughs low in his throat.

"Genetics. Science, not magic."

"There are at least ten organizations I know of that insist otherwise."

"Are those the ones that want to exterminate us all or the ones that think we're gods?"

"Both, actually." He kisses Peter again, softly this time, and Peter groans, pushes him onto his back. His runs his hand down the side of Simon's neck, curves down to settle on his waist. "I keep getting pamphlets about the coming apocalypse. Cannot make it stop."

"The end of the world," Peter says as Simon grabs his wrist, puts it where he wants it to be. "I've been there. Twice."

And Simon has to laugh, because he has no idea what Peter's talking about, but he doesn't doubt for one second that it's true.

*

Monty said, his lip curling, "Really, Simon? That's how you're going to go?" This, when Simon finally accepted the job at the law firm that had been courting him for months. They were in Monty's new apartment; two months in and he was still unpacking. At some point Simon would just do it for him, but right now he was content to just rifle through boxes, keep his hands busy. "Defending rich criminals, aren't we moving backwards?"

But Simon wasn't Nathan Petrelli, he didn't have to worry about their family's association with the mob; besides, nowadays, thanks to Claire and Peter, their family was more likely to be associated with the specials. Simon was never quite sure which implication was worse.

"It's just a job, Monty. Hardly the end of the world. I was never going to join a non-profit and work pro bono, saving the downtrodden and the needy from the cruel jaws of injustice."

"Yeah," Monty smirked. "That's a romantic idea though. But I forget you're the realist of the family."

"Someone has to be," Simon snapped, harsher than he'd intended to, and Monty's smile faded away. _I'm sorry._

Monty only waved him off. "I respect your choices, you know that. I even understand them. Sometimes I wish I didn't."

"Well, if you'd stop reading my mind so often."

"I don't, you know." He grabbed a photo that Simon had taken out of a box labeled _Essentials_ and placed it on a mantlepiece already cluttered with picture frames.

"Don't what?"

"I only ever hear what you want me to, Simon," Monty said, and he stepped back, observed his work. "What do you think?"

"I think it's great. Only twenty-five more boxes to go. At this rate you'll be done by Christmas."

Monty scratched distractedly at the back of his head. "Yeah, but that's what I have you for."

"Don't you have a girlfriend for that? Where is she, by the way." The apartment was beautiful, but Simon knew what homes with women living in them looked like, and this wasn't it.

"Eh, we're taking a break. It's complicated." He shrugged easily, uncaring. Women floated in and out of Monty's life, mostly without consequence. Simon knew there'd be another one in about a month or so. Probably less. "Congratulations, by the way. Take me out to dinner sometime, we'll celebrate."

"Okay," Simon said, and what he meant was: _Thank you._

*

From one second to the next, and everything changes. The girl's coming into the hotel lobby just as they're exiting, Peter's laughing and Simon's mostly just watching the long lines of his neck, paying scant attention to anything else. Peter holds the door open for her, and she says "Thank you," and smiles.

The blood spattering onto Simon's face feels exactly like rain, only warm, and Peter's slow, headless fall to the ground is almost comical, as unreal as a scene from a movie. "Hello, Simon," the woman says, and something hard hits the side of his face.

He regains consciousness tied to a chair, in a room that's small and otherwise empty save for the man strapped to a gurney next to him. Simon recognizes the shape of the head, even though Sylar's face is almost entirely covered in blood and there are knives and scalpels sticking out of various parts of his body at odd angles. "You're awake, that's good," the girl says, kneeling in front of him. "I thought you'd be passed out forever. I don't want you to miss the main event."

"You killed Peter," Simon says, dizzy suddenly.

"Yeah, sorry," she responds lightly, pushing dark hair away from her face. "No wait, he's Sylar's friend as well. No, I'm not. I really wish you'd died at least, in that house. I planned it just for you, so he could watch someone he loved die again, to remind him of what he clearly seems to have forgotten. But I guess it works the other way around as well." She pats him on the knee and stands up.

"So," Simon says, "what did he do to you?"

"Killed my mother. It was a long time ago, but it's not really something one gets over, I feel." She points a finger at him and waggles it. "Unless you're a Petrelli, of course."

Simon starts to laugh; it sounds hollow in his ears. "Lady, you have no fucking clue about my family. None."

"Probably not. Not that it matters anyway. How could you," she says, and she sounds entirely reasonable and entirely sane. "He killed your father. My mother, all she wanted was to be left alone. Her power wasn't even that useful. But just having one is enough for him, it seems." Her nails drag across the side of Simon's face, and Simon can't bear to look at her. Can't bear to see. "I just need to find the spot," she says softly. "Then he'll be dead. I can find it, I'm just having too much fun right now making him scream. But you can watch."

"Will you let me go afterwards?"

Her eyes narrow and she grabs his chin, forces him to look up. "You're defending him. What do you think?"

And of course Simon wants her dead, she's going to kill him, but he honestly can't say as he blames her, particularly. "I'm sorry," he says.

"Too late."

Days pass. Weeks, months. He's not aware of anything at all anymore, except for pain and fear and the sound of Sylar screaming endlessly. Strange, but at one point that would have given him some sort of satisfaction. This is Sylar dying, one small piece at a time.

Simon's not really certain what happens next. There's a sound, like the air shifting around them, and he thinks, _Peter_ , but Peter is dead, and then there's screaming and his chair is toppled over, and then more screaming and a sound like thunder across the plain. Simon starts screaming himself at some point, his entire body feels like it's being ripped apart, molecule by molecule, and then everything stops, just like like that.

When he finally catches his breath he blinks, and there's someone next to him, pulling him up and working on his restraints. "You're okay, you're fine," and it sounds exactly like Peter.

"Peter?"

"Yeah," Peter says, and his smile is just about the best thing Simon's seen all day. Perhaps all week.

"Apparently," someone else says, someone whose voice he immediately recognizes even though he's not heard it in over a year, "If you re-attach a regen's head? They come back to life. Good to know, don't you think?" Claire grins. "They called Angela to identify the body, and she called me. Said she had a dream Peter had died and I would save him. I was just grateful Sylar wasn't lying in the morgue as well."

Simon frowns, not understanding the wry twist of amusement in her voice, until Sylar moans quietly, and they both turn their heads in his direction. "Please, help," he gasps wetly. "Please."

Claire's grin fades into an annoyed scowl. "I wish we could just leave him there," she grumbles. "Peter, you owe me. Simon, you too. You're lucky we're family and I care." She walks over to the gurney and starts pulling out knives, working on restraints, tossing every sharp instrument carelessly to the floor as she jerks it out of Sylar's body.

"I'm glad you're not dead," Simon tells Peter as he's helped to his feet. He staggers as he tries to support himself, and Peter wraps one arm around his waist, holds him steady as if he weighs nothing at all. That's six, or maybe seven. Simon's lost count at this point. Peter's other arm comes up to cup his cheek, but it's only for a second before he drops it. "Thank you," Simon says quietly.

He glances to the left but Peter says, "Don't. You don't want to see. We didn't have a choice."

"Funny," Simon says, his weariness having nothing at all to do with the injuries he sustained, "I always thought we did."

*

Her name is Claudia, Grandma said when she introduced them. "She comes from a good family. I do believe the two of you will hit it off." Claudia was nothing at all like Irena, and for that Simon was grateful, but it wasn't as if he was going to marry her or anything, even if they did go out a few times, mostly because even Ma had suggested that it might be a good idea. Grandma said, six months after they'd started dating, when Simon had come home to visit and was in the kitchen getting himself a drink, "She's a lovely young lady, Simon. And it's perhaps about time you settled down."

"I feel it's up to me to decide when I will settle down, don't you," Simon said stiffly, setting the drink down carefully on the kitchen island.

"Simon," Ma interrupted sharply. "Watch your tone with your grandmother."

"Sorry," Simon said. "Sorry, Grandma. I'm just not ready for marriage yet."

They exchanged a glance, and Grandma said, "Claudia has a brother, did you know? Older than her by a year. I heard rumors that he has an ability. Something to do with fire. Unregistered, of course; his ability is quite dangerous I'm told." She put a loaf of bread onto a cutting board and grabbed a knife.

Simon snorted. "So what? Are you hoping that us two will breed specials?"

"No, dear," Angela replied, cutting calmly into the bread, one overly thin slice after another. "It's just that I find families with secrets of their own have a tendency to keep those of others."

Monty said, "Don't marry her because of me. It's not as if we're even living in the same house anymore - how the fuck is whoever you choose to marry ever going to figure it out? "

"Jesus, Monty, I've been seeing her for six months. I'm hardly going to propose tomorrow." They were in the treehouse that had somehow managed to survive more than thirty years, reinforced, of course; Monty and he had spent an entire summer fixing it up when they were teenagers. Simon was sitting with his back against the wall as Monty walked around, all nervous energy as usual. "And will you sit down for god's sake, your pacing is giving me a headache."

Monty sighed and plopped himself down next to Simon, close enough that Simon had to move to accommodate him. "It's just that -"

"Sometimes there are just no easy choices," Simon said. He took Monty's chin in his hand and turned his face so they were eye to eye. "You know this." _You know this._ He liked Claudia, respected her. She was perfectly fine, and more to the point, he wasn't interested in marrying someone else.

"What about love," Monty said, a tinge of sadness in his voice. "Don't you want to marry someone you love?"

"Love is overrated," Simon said. "Besides, you know better than I do. Our parents didn't love each other either."

"So we keep repeating their mistakes, is that what we do?"

"Yes." He let go of Monty's chin, but only to wrap an arm around his neck, pull him in to kiss him on the forehead. _I don't know what I'm supposed to do._

"You're supposed to not let yourself get caught up in grandma's machinations. I mean she seems like she's being perfectly reasonable most of the time, but if you listen carefully -"

"Some of us can't read minds, Monty."

Monty only sighed, but all he said was, "It's not about me, Simon. Don't make it about me."

Simon broke up with Claudia two weeks later, and it was telling that she seemed slightly relieved and promised him that they would still remain friends.

Grandma only said, "I guess you will do what you will, dear."

*

At some point between them emerging from the warehouse and the chaos surrounding them when the police finally show up, Sylar disappears. "Fuck," Simon swears when he realizes he's gone. "Fuck."

Peter puts his arm around Simon and squeezes, says, "Don't worry. We'll find him."

"Yeah, I've heard that one before."

"No, but I know now where he'll go."

"How did you find me," Simon asks, because it seems like the thing to say.

"Magic." Peter grins wanly at his sour look. "I remembered her face, and let's just say I know someone who can - Well, it's complicated."

"I'm sure it is," Simon replies, and he leans into Peter's warm body, not caring at all who's watching. "He killed her mother," he says, head against Peter's chest, feeling his heart thud, slow and steady.

Peter stills, and when he speaks his voice is hoarse, "Yeah, I figured it had to be something like that. She wanted to avenge her death, and I just -" he breaks off, leaves the words unspoken. They're unnecessary anyway. He pulls away, removes his arm with a sense of firm finality, and his face when Simon looks at him is smooth as glass and just as distant. "I'll fly us there when we're done here. Then it'll be over."

"We're Petrellis, Peter," Simon says, and he tilts his head back towards the night sky, searches for stars that he knows won't be visible. "Nothing is ever over for us."

Claire finishes up with the some of the cops still milling around and stomps over. "Okay so, both of you are still supposed to be in India," she says, shooting a pointed look at Peter. "But don't worry, I've taken care of it so you're good to go."

"Thanks, Claire." Peter's smile is tired.

She frowns. "All this for Sylar? I hope you know what you're doing, Simon."

"Who was she," Simon asks. "I just - she never told me her name, only that Sylar killed her mother."

"We don't know yet," Claire says. "Sylar killed a lot of kids' parents." She tucks her hands into her coat pockets and is suddenly old and weary, despite still looking exactly the same as she always has. "Find him, bring him in. But don't be stupid about it. I can't keep covering your ass if you insist on constantly blowing shit up," she tells Peter.

"I'll try my best."

"How's your brother," she asks, abruptly turning to Simon.

"He's fine," Simon says cautiously, stiffening despite himself. Peter's hand tightens around his shoulder and Simon tries to relax. "Same old Monty."

"Yes, of course. Tell him I said hi," Claire says. She knows, of course, she has to. Simon still doesn't trust her fully, though. Not when she carries that badge. She hugs Simon tight before she leaves, whispers, "Don't get yourself into any more trouble, okay? Your grandmother will never let me hear the end of it."

Simon promises. She's still mostly a stranger to him, but one he's fond of at least.

*

The beach is calm and beautiful. "Hello, Peter," Sylar says without turning around. He's sitting near the waves, watching the water try for his boots. "Did you know that if I move my feet exactly one half of an inch, the tide will eventually wet them? Thank you for saving my life, by the way. I appreciate it."

"I didn't come here to talk about the tide, Sylar. I came to -"

"Get my sorry ass home?" The smile he flashes Peter is intimate and knowing, and Peter grins back in kind. It fades away when he turns to look back at the ocean. "Sometimes I wish I were still there. It seems safer that way. Parts of my body are still healing. I believe her power was somewhat similar to mine, only magnified by pain." He shifts, and his voice takes on a faintly dreamy air. "It's an amazing ability."

"Look, Sylar," Simon interjects, but Peter puts a hand on his chest and shakes his head. Simon grits his teeth, but this is why Peter is here after all, why he didn't come alone. "I'll just, yeah." He waves his hand impatiently, and Peter goes to sit down next to Sylar.

"When I came forward," Sylar says, after about an hour of interminable silence, "I didn't actually think I might lose. That they would take away my powers. I could live with incarceration, Peter. But not that. I've had a lot of time to think, strapped down in that room."

"It's not permanent, Sylar. What's the longest sentence they could pass?"

"For all my crimes?"

"Yeah, but things change. Sometimes with every administration. Besides, you have centuries."

"I suppose I do." Sylar sighs softly. "I killed Elle here. I still remember it, as if it were yesterday. I wish I didn't. I'd do just about anything. Do you think the pills they make you take suppress your memory as well?"

"No," Peter says. "I don't think they do."

Simon tilts his head back, looks up at the night sky, ridden with stars, wind against his cheeks. He thought he'd be freezing but instead he's warm, and the world speeds past him so fast it's nothing short of exhilarating, nothing short of magical. Superpowers, he thinks. His father was Superman. Everything's changing, and they're all caught up in it now. Too late to turn back.

"I think I'm ready to go home now, Simon," Sylar says.

"Yeah," Simon replies. "So am I."

 

* * *

  
  


  
 **(mini-mix: a photo essay of a family in mourning)**  
Monty | Sylar | Peter | Molly | Simon          

Christine Fellows - Vertebrae ›  
The Mountain Goats - If You See Light ›  
Aloha - I Don't Know What Else to Do ›  
Sleeping at Last - Porcelain ›  
Vic Chesnutt - Yesterday, Tomorrow and Today ›

 **[**[zip](http://whateverish.org/stuff/freedom/freedom-mix.zip) **]**          

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